


Looking at the sky

by Talvi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Sherlock, Depressed Sherlock, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8861965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talvi/pseuds/Talvi
Summary: Sherlock is having a bad time, and he discovers John is there to help him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Mirar al cielo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8776975) by [Talvi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talvi/pseuds/Talvi). 



> So here's the thing: I never expected to write Sherlock fanfic because I thought it would be OOC, I think it kinda is in this fic so please forgive me.
> 
> Besides, english is not my native language and I don't have a beta so I'm sorry for any mistakes.
> 
> I just had to do this story. Hope you enjoy it. Please read the tags.

It all started with the napping. They had been living together for almost a year and John never saw Sherlock taking a nap in the midde of the day. Usually Sherock never slept more than 6 hours at day, maybe after a case he needed some more time to rest, but usually it quickly came back to his rutine. 6 hours of sleeping at night, no nap. But now, Sherlock slept almost 10 hours at night and always took a nap of 3 or 4 hours. But he never went to bed at the same time as John, he stayed late just lying down on the sofa.

“Sherlock?” called John from the kitchen to the (apparently) sleeping figure on the couch. –Do you want some tea?

“whatimeisit?” Sherlock replied without moving

“Almost 11 am. Sundays are good, aren’t they?”

“No tea.”

“Biscuits?”

“No.”

“What time did you go to bed last night?”

“dontknow.”

John walked in the living room and found a lot of books scattered all around the floor.

“What happened?”

“booksarestupid.”

“Ok, I see.” 

“everything’sstupid.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that before.” John sat at the desk after picking up a book from the floor “so, do you have any plans for today? any cases? violin? more books?”

“sleep”

“You’ve been sleeping a lot lately.”

“shh…”

So John didn’t push it any further. If Sherlock wanted to sleep, he would let him. The detective needed the rest.

\---

Three days later, John threatened to throw away all his chemistry equipment if Sherlock didn’t take a shower. So it was: couch, shower, couch, where he slept until 3 am.

Lestrade phoned the next day. Sherlock’s phone was ringing for almost 15 minutes until John took it and handed it to Sherlock. It ended up being thrown against the wall.

The Detective Inspector called John next time. Sherlock refused to talk and didn’t showed any interest in the case that was, at least, a nine.

A week later they were in the same situation, now at 3pm, with Sherlock napping on the couch after having some toast at breakfast when John almost forced him to eat. Yes, John was starting to worry a lot, he wanted to remember exactly when all this started but he couldn’t recall. Maybe 3 weeks now, he thought opening a new file on his laptop and writing a note on it. He was a doctor and Sherlock sleeping so much could mean many things, he knew it, so it was better to keep an eye on his friend. The detective moved on the couch to lay on his back looking at the ceiling but he put his hands on his face.

“John…” he spoke softly

“Yes?” John hurried to reply, almost happy to see Sherlock finally waking up and talking to him.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“You can’t do what, Sherlock?”

“This.”

“What’s this?”

“THIS!” Sherlock shouted and got up from the couch, his eyes filled with tears “I can’t, John! Please help me!”

“Yes, ok, ok” John replied standing up too and walking to his friend “Listen to me, I will help you, but you need to be more specific” he looked at Sherlock’s face and his heart seemed to break. Sherlock crying? that was definitely something he never expected to see. “What…what is happening? Talk to me, please.”

“I can’t do this anymore, John…” 

“Do what?”

“Live.”

“Sherlock…”

Suddenly, Sherlock walked past John and started walking to his bedroom.

“Sherlock! No, wait!” John ran after him and catched him on the kitchen “Listen, you can’t say something like that and then run away.”

“John…”

“No. Come here, you will sit with me and we’ll talk, really talk. It’s obvious that you need to, and I’m here to listen and help you as much as I can. Together we will find a solution. I promise, Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock turned and looked at John’s direction but keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. He realized John was being honest.

“Ok…” he spoke quietly and walked to the couch “I apologize in advance if I can’t… if it’s hard to… talk. I’m not used to…have someone.”

“I know.” John nodded. “But I’m here now, ok?”

Sherlock sat down and waited until John did the same by his side.

“John, I… I meant what I’ve said. I can’t do this anymore. Living. Just..everything’s so hard right now, just getting up or walking or eating, or just being awake. I feel…empty inside, like there’s a hole in my chest and I can’t fill it with anything. None of the things that once give sense to my life, the cases, the violin, nothing of that means anything anymore. I…” he sighed and covered his face with his hands again, this time trying to keep the tears from falling.

“Sherlock… are you aware…do you know what this seems to be?” John talked first like a doctor, since he already heard many people said that kind of things to him in the past, and his answer was always the same.

“I know, I know. John, this is not…this is not the first time in my life this happens to me.”

“Oh…I see.”

“I was fourteen the first time. Mommy and father worried a lot but didn’t know what to do. It lasted almost 6 months. When I left school it just got worse and I started, you know…using. By the time I was 19 I was…suicidal. Mycroft helped me. I have to…thank him for that someday. After 4 months being suicidal and self harming he sent me to a doctor and well, they put me on medication. It…was ok for a couple weeks, maybe a month until I got manic and ran away from Mycroft’s and ended up in the streets, using again. I wasn’t thinking, John, I couldn’t. It was chaos, all of it. When Mycroft found me I was… in my worst, doing things I can’t speak about to get another fix, and sometimes just to find something to eat. I didn’t come back to the medication and I’m sure Mycroft never forgave me for that decision. Before I met you, like two months before, I had my last episode. Solved four cases in one week. After you moved in, Mycroft wanted me to tell you but…I couldn’t. Now… now I’m losing my will to live again and I don’t even want to think about it, I don’t want to scare you. You will leave after this, I know.”

“So, it’s… a mood disorder, then.”

“Bipolar, the doctors said. Depression, hypomania and mixed episodes…Doctor.” Sherlock looked away, ashamed. He felt like he had hit bottom when he asked John for help, but now… now he was sure John would leave. 

“Sherlock…I won’t…. Hey…”he took Sherlock’s hand between his “Look at me and listen, please...Thank you. I won’t leave. Do you hear me? I won’t. This…” John tried to find the right words. This time not as a doctor, but as a friend. He needed Sherlock to understand that he wasn’t leaving. “Thank you for telling me this. I know you’re scared, but you don’t have to be ashamed. This is not your fault, none of it. We will face it together, ok, I will help you and we’ll find a way out…”

“I want…I want to sleep, John.”

Sherlock was napping again on the couch while John made another cup of tea. He went to his room and found a box containing some of his med school’s books. He found the one he needed and walked back to the living room. He sat down, put the cup of tea by his side and opened the book on the chapter that read “Mood disorders”. Sherlock slept for another two hours.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of what's going on in Sherlock's mind. Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks so much for reading.  
> Now, 2 things:
> 
> First. I'm not an english native speaker and I don't have a beta reader (sadly), so this chapter in particular might have several grammar mistakes, and I apologize (but feel free to leave me corrections in the comments).
> 
> Second. I forgot to say in the first chapter that this fic has an spanish version, so if you speak spanish or know someone who does or something you can check it out here http://archiveofourown.org/works/8776975/chapters/20119450

He had been in bed for almost an hour. He was tired, completely tired of it. Every time he felt like sleep was finally coming he woke up again startled. In the darkness his head seemed to be spinning and every time he closed his eyes he saw shadows stalking and he heard screaming chasing him. Last night he had gone to bed at 3 am and woke up in the middle of the night five times.

This was ridiculous.

The street lights came into the window and when he heard the voices of two people walking by he wondered, tried to deduce who they were. They were young, a man and a woman around their 20’s. They laughed while talking and Sherlock felt how the emptiness inside him grew. An irrepressible river of sadness ran through his body and he wanted to shout to the darkness. He wanted to let go a scream of despair, letting go all the pain that was killing him inside.

John.

He had been thinking about it for days, thinking about telling John what was happening. Sometimes he felt hopeless enough to ask for help, but other times his depression filled with anger and frustration and he just wanted to yell until John finally walked away from his life. Those times were the worst. Lying down on the sofa, he had to fight against what he was feeling inside, against all the anger that didn’t left him alone. He had to fight against all those thoughts filling his mind. And those thoughts only told him that he didn’t deserve such a pure friendship like John’s and that he would leave at the first opportunity he had if Sherlock only gave him a good reason. And Sherlock had given him many reasons, thousands of times. He felt guilt hinder his thoughts every time John was near.

Pictures.

The worst were the things he imagined. Sometimes he saw himself stealing his friend’s gun while he slept and then he saw the walls painted with his blood after he put the gun in his mouth, Mrs Hudson ran upstairs right after hearing the gunshot and John tried to comfort her in her crying. Other times he saw himself in the darkest alleys in town selling his violin for the right amount of the right pills, and he could see John and Lestrade finding his body in a dump hours later. More than once he had seen himself locked in the bathroom while John drank his afternoon tea, a small knife in his right hand and the dark red colour flooding everything around him while he got lost in his nightmares, then John breaking down the bathroom door and his hands red in blood while still calling his name. Sometimes he had those thoughts while he pretended to sleep when John was writing his blog, sometimes they appeared while he took one of those pointless showers that John forced him to take, sometimes they came while looking through the window trying to see the colour of the sky.

Movement.

He couldn’t move. During the day he managed to walk from one place to another but his limbs seemed made of lead. His eyelids were heavy when he blinked and his ribs seemed to hurt from the effort every time he took a breath. John forced him to eat and Sherlock had to fight with all his strength to move his arm to pick up a piece of toast. Getting out of the bed or the couch meant having to gather all his strength from where he didn’t have any just to find himself later on the floor trying to hold on the tears.

Music.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d picked up his violin. When this was just starting, once he took it out its case, but he couldn’t dare to pick up the bow. It wasn’t inside him anymore. The sounds didn’t run through his body. The music that played inside his head had no taste. Despair filled him and he spent two hours locked in his room while guilt and hopelessness brought him down in the form of tears. He couldn’t, and he didn’t know when he was going to do it again. One night John asked him why he didn’t played his violin and Sherlock, facing the wall, felt something breaking in his chest; he didn’t replied and John didn’t bring it up again.

Colours.

He never left the apartment anymore. Once he looked out of the window to the street and he saw the faces of everyone walking by. He knew some of them were laughing but he couldn’t see the smiles. The sky. The sky didn’t have any color and he did remember John saying that they were having really sunny days. But the sun didn’t exist for him anymore. And he couldn’t find the blue that he once loved. The nights were worst. He woke up in the middle of the night and looked through his window but the stars were not shinning anymore. Once, he told John about the beauty of a starry sky but now it was just a black canvas. Inside of him ran black and white rivers and he when he looked in the mirror, he only remembered the colour of his eyes because his mother used to make songs about it.

Calls.

Lestrade called him. Texted him. Until he turned off his phone. He couldn’t reply. The Detective Inspector would talk to him into hundreds of different cases trying to get his interest but wouldn’t understand the reasons Sherlock had to not show up at the crime scenes. His mind was not working the same way. The deductions were just senseless words and sentences that didn’t get to connect in his head. And even if they did it would be better if not. He had always been a freak. So many people had said it in the past that they must had been right. He could feel their judgmental looks and he was aware of the things they said when he was gone. They were right, of course they were. What he did was not a gift, it had never been. It was just a magic trick that didn’t surprise anyone anymore. John pretended to be impressed, but Sherlock was sure it was just an act. No one could really appreciate him for what he was. He didn’t appreciate himself anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if you feel like correcting any grammar mistakes, please, please leave me a message and I will edit it. Thank you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock talk a little about what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're trying, guys. John is a really good friend. Just a friend, at least for now.

“We have to do something about it.”

“No, John, we’re not doing anything. I’m…I’m sorry that I told you everything I told you yesterday. I can deal with this, it’s just…”

“It’s depression, Sherlock. It’s not a joke. It’s not something that will just go away. We have to do something about it, whether you want it or not. I’m not going to let you suffering on your own.”

“I’m not suff…”

“No, Sherlock. I know what you’re trying to do. I’m not going to walk away. I’m not leaving you alone in this. It’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Why? Are you afraid that I’ll be back on drugs? Are you afraid that I’ll commit suicide? Well, I got some news for you, Dr. Watson: I don’t need you to take care of me, I don’t need you to pity the poor depressive guy, I don’t need you behind me taking care that I don’t get near a sharp object. I’m not going to do anything dangerous, and even if I did, it’s not your problem. It’s mine, it has always been my problem. And you know what? You wouldn’t know anything if last night I would shut the fuck up. And you could carry on with your life, ignoring me.”

“Ignoring you? Sherlock… Sherlock, I don’t know what you’re thinking…This is it, I’m calling Mycroft.”

“What? No! No No no, John don’t do that.”

“Then are you going to work with me?”

“John, I don’t need…”

“You don’t need what? you don’t need help? Are you going to get over this on your own? Are you going to let depression take over your life and take away from you the things you love?”

“Depression is not taking over my life.”

“Isn’t it? How long have you been like this? Three weeks? A month?”

“Thank you for paying attention, doctor.”

“No, Sherlock, this is serious. You need to come back to your life. Going out, solving cases, playing the violin…”

“Cases? Violin? John, I don’t have the energy for all that. I don’t have it. I can’t even get out of the bed and you want me to play Tchaikovsky.”

“Sherlock, I know right now it all seems difficult…”

“Difficult? It’s impossible! impossible. And cases? I can’t think, John. The words…the deductions, they don’t make sense in my head anymore.”

“Sherlock…”

“I can’t do it, John. I can’t carry on like this.”

“We’re going to get over this together.”

“You don’t have to. This is my problem. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Yes, it does. I’m your friend, Sherlock.”

“Friend…”

“Yes, that’s what I am. I’m going to stay here with you.”

“John…”

“Are you taking another nap?”

“Yes. Maybe when I wake up I could…have a cup of tea.”

“Yes, that sounds like a good idea.”

There was a part of John that couldn’t stand to see him like that. He was praying that this was the last time he had to see an episode like this, but he knew it wouldn’t be. He knew he would do anything to see Sherlock solving cases again, playing the violin at 2 am, walking around the apartment while doing a new experiment. He needed to see him like that again. Without realizing what he was doing, he got up from his chair and got close to Sherlock’s. The violin was resting on its case at the side of the chair. He sat in the black leather chair and sighed. He was trying to remember when was the last time Sherlock took a shower or had something to eat when he suddenly felt tired. He shouldn’t, not now, he needed to be alright to help his friend, to be his rock in this hard moment. His phone vibrated and he found a new text from Sherlock. “Thank you”. Just two words that meant so much. Without thinking it twice John went to the kitchen and filled a glass of fresh water, walked down the aisle and slowly knocked on Sherlock’s door, he heard a soft noise coming from the inside and he walked in. In silence, John got close to the bed and put the glass on the bedside table. Sherlock looked at him and a soft smile drew on his face. John sat at the edge of the bed and rested his hand softly on his friend’s forehead. Without words, he wanted to tell him everything he needed to say, that he would be here for him, no matter what, that all this bad things will come to pass, that someday he would again enjoy all the things he loved and that John would always be by his side. Sherlock sat down and took a sip of the water, sighed and rested his head on John’s shoulder. They stayed like that several minutes, in silence while they heard the sounds coming from the street. Life continued for everybody else, but in this moment, in this room, time was frozen. At least for now. And Sherlock was grateful.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is facing a new challenge to fight his mood disorder. And of course John is there with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bipolar, and though my illness might not be as severe as the one I think Sherlock has in this story, it is a journey. In this chapter we talk about bipolar medical treatment. Honestly, medication and therapy had changed my life for good.

There was a lot of white. The walls were white, the furniture was white. Sherlock felt sick. He wanted to run away, and he tried to do it a couple of times. So John was now holding his hand. “You can’t run away. You won’t. Not this time. I’ll make sure.” He’d said. Sherlock sighed, he knew John was right but he wasn’t in the mood to see it. There was a painting in the wall in front of him. He couldn’t recognize the author, so it was probable someone unknown. He tried to think. Maybe it was from a friend, or someone in the family. Maybe she painted it. It didn’t matter, not right now. He was about to face that kind of doctor again. In his mind, one thing was to see a doctor because you’ve been stabbed, or because you’ve broken an arm. But this…this was different. Oh God, it was so different. He knew how this was, he had been in this position before, just that time it was Mycroft who almost chained him to the chair in the waiting room. Now, when you have broken your arm, you just go and say “I think my arm is broken, it hurts like hell” and then, after maybe some tests, you get your solution, and in a couple months you’re back in action. But this… this required talking, opening yourself to another human being. And Sherlock was not used to do it. He even kept stuff hidden from John. But now he had to go inside those four walls, sit in a chair and explain to someone that his brain is out of control and that he dreams about death. And explain his past. And then you get your happy pills and don’t come back for a month. And the happy pills might not be so happy and your brain tries to adjust but you still feel tired during the day and now maybe your hands shake and how on earth was he going to play the violin like that? John had told him, many times in the last few days that it was a necessary evil, that he would had to face the side effects, but that the side effects of an untreated bipolar disorder were always worst. He didn’t want this. The whole year he lived with John he was normal (euthymic, yes, he remembered that) and he, honestly, he began to think that maybe the whole bipolar thing wasn’t real, that maybe he got rid of it somehow and that he was going to live his life having some form of control about his emotions and his mood, and then, suddenly, this happened. He didn’t want this, he never asked for this and he thought it was really unfair because he had made bad things in the past but for god’s sake, he was only 14 when it happened for the first time!

“Sherlock?”

And now he’s stuck with this, and this new doctor, and John had said something about therapy, but therapy? every week? and pills every day? and he knew, he knew this was going to last for years and years and maybe for the rest of his life and even with all that, the episodes could happen again, there was no warranty that he was going to be euthymic for a month or a year. And that stupid painting in front of him, and the white walls, and no, he didn’t wanted pills, no thank you, he just wanted his life back.

“Sherlock!”

But John’s hand was there. Yes, it was. Holding his own hand. John, right, John.

“Sherlock.”

“Sorry, I was…thinking.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Depressed”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, John.”

“Anytime.”

“Every month for the rest of my life.”

“You know that in a couple years, who knows, if you’re doing really well…”

“Yes, I know.”

“It’s not a death sentence, Sherlock, this is to improve your health.”

“I know, I know. I…understand, John, I do. But it is hard. It is unfair.”

“You’re a great man, anyway. You’re better than any of us, in many ways. This is just… a challenge you have to face.”

“Thank you, John. For coming with me.”

John smiled. He could see his friend was being honest. And he hated this, of course he did. But this was good for Sherlock, finally looking for real help. He knew he had been really annoying with his friend since he found out about the depression, making him get out of the bed, making him eat, making him shower, but this was what he was supposed to do, as a doctor, and, more importantly, as a friend.

“Mr. Holmes” 

A woman’s voice took John and Sherlock out of their minds. Sherlock stood up and slowly let go of John’s hand.

“Here.”

“Come in please. Mr. Watson, as his flatmate I will need to talk to you after I talk to Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

John saw him walking inside. And he felt a spark of hope inside him. In that moment he realized, honestly, that he would do anything for that man.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the end of this story. I hope you like it. I really enjoyed writting it, more than I expected.   
> I'm sorry the chapters are so short.  
> And for the last time: I'm sorry for any mistakes, english isn't my first language and I don't have a beta.
> 
> Thank you for reading! You can leave a comment, it would mean a lot ;)

Lestrade had called. And this time, after months, Sherlock picked up the phone.

“What?”

“I’ve got a 9, at least”

“I’m listening, don’t be boring”

John was sitting on the couch trying to think what to write in his blog. He had posted a couple of old cases, but he hadn’t posted anything in about three weeks. He obviously couldn’t just say “Sherlock is severely depressed. He spends his days in bed and I spend my days forcing him to take his medication.” And now he smiled, Sherlock talking to Lestrade was a good sign. It has been three weeks since the time Sherlock went to the psychiatrist and finally he was seeing some progress. Yes, Sherlock had some minor side effects but now he was actually getting better, he was more talkative, correcting the TV again, John even agreed to play Cluedo on Saturday and he had so much fun just watching Sherlock deducing again. Of course, he still had bad days when he couldn’t get out of the bed or he wouldn’t accept any food. But he was making progress and John was pleased. 

“So, we’ve got a new case”

“Probably, but it wasn’t a 9, he was exaggerating, of course. I told him to text me the details.”

Sherlock solved the case in two days, and actually he didn’t have to leave the flat.

Next Sunday Mycroft was visiting them.

“So, Dr Watson, I can see Sherlock has made some progress.”

John put two cups of tea on the table. Sherlock was on the sofa doing something on his computer, or was it John’s. Actually, John was so happy that their old life was coming back that he didn’t care.

“He’s betting better indeed.” he smiled 

“I can’t believe you convinced him to finally get real treatment”

“Well, we both decided it was the best thing to do.”

“You don’t have to do this. I won’t force you to stay around now that you know about…my brother’s illness.”

“What? No. I’m staying.”

“You didn’t sign up for this. I can take care of him. I suppose he usually pretends he forgot to take his medication.”

“What? No, Mycroft. Didn’t you hear me? I’m staying with him. Here in Baker Street. I will be here for him no matter what. I will make him take his medication every day, I will come with him to therapy if he wants me to, I will be here to force him to eat in his depressions and I will be here to calm him down on his manic episodes. You don’t understand. He has an illness, that’s true, but he can control it, and friends and family support is important. I hope you understand this the same way I do. I know you’ve been there for him and I expect you to be there for him again, whenever we need your help. I hope we’re on the same page here, Mycroft.”

Mycroft finished his tea and stood up. He looked at Sherlock.

“I hope you realize little brother how lucky you are to have me and Doctor Watson…”

“Shut up and leave thanks.”

“Always so charming.”

“John.” Sherlock left the computer on the couch, stood up and went to take his coat. “We have work to do. I’m sorry, dear brother, you can show yourself the way out.” with this John took his coat too and followed the detective downstairs.

Mycroft stood still in the living room at Baker Street. He was right that day, back at the crime scene where John had shoot the cabbie. He took his note book and wrote a small note: Sherlock’s medication name and dose. On his way out he noticed a post it on the wall next to the doctor, he smiled recognizing his brother’s therapist name and appointment date. 

Sherlock looked at John sitting next to him on the cab and smiled. He remembered that time when he was 14, his first depressive episode and he thought of the last one, just months ago. He knew this was something he had to live his whole life with, but now, now he had someone by his side, someone actually willing to accept him as a whole and he realized that, right now, in this moment, he was actually happy.


End file.
